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A DREAM OF NOT SEEING TOM HOUSE

C Ra McGuirt

I dreamed
I dreamed I went back to the Windows
But it was not the Windows
Where we had poetry before
The yuppies took it all away
And the fat law came to keep at bay
Me and Cap for what we might do
After the new folks didn’t call
To tell us no more poetry
And booked Dave Olney who didn’t show
And put up a Planet Hollywood
And teddy bear shops and the dives went away.

Even though it was the Windows
It was an apothecary too
And a bakery as well
Words I had written
On old wooden walls
Went away before my eyes
Even as they were shown to me.

The new manager was a total unknown
Young and kindly enough
I kept wishing him well
And trying to leave
But first I wanted to eat breakfast
Four ugly birds came for my breakfast
As I got into my OK car
For a change. In most all of my dreams
My vehicles are usually oddly made
And falling apart and far too small.

The aggressive birds were covered with lice
And wouldn’t let go of my Egg McMuffins
I threw breakfast away in choked disgust
And went back to the Windows.

There was a guitar and healing herbs
On sale but the kindly manager said
Don’t tell the tourists we are here
They will only wreck the place again
I saw a Mexican Restaurant
Which I couldn’t have seen from 2nd Ave
Near White Bridge Road down on West End
And the manager said
It was a touristy restaurant
And overpriced but I went there
Anyway because I was hungry still
Except I went back to the Windows instead
And asked for a washroom. I say washroom now
Because I’m a Permanent Resident
Of another place where this is said.
I had to piss bad, or as spellcheck says
I had to piss badly. In any case
The manager opened a big metal tube
Full of fresh baked bread and kept bringing me back
Until the tube tapered out into darkness
He said he guessed it wasn’t the bathroom.

I kept looking for my cigarettes
But I don’t smoke now. I kept losing things
Like I lost my glasses just last night
Before I slept and dreamed this dream
I wanted to drive back to Brookmeade
Where I lived in West Nashville
To be with my wife
But we don’t live in Brookmeade
We live on the plains of Canada
Where the wind screams your ears off even in April
And somehow Tom House was in this dream
Except I never saw him or heard him play
“Canada” from ‘til you’ve seen mine.

Well.

At least it wasn’t another one
Of those goddamned dreams
I’ve been having for years
About working at
Sperry’s restaurant again
And arriving 10 minutes before 5:30
With nothing prepped and my ass on the line.



Scars Publications


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